Women’s Libbers made such a song and dance about everything. Elisabeth had given her The Women’s Room and Milly had hated every page. If a woman agrees to a certain role, then she is not being exploited. The plain facts were: a single woman was the bane of society; a barren woman would go to her grave wishing she’d had kids. And a married woman had to be…be less than a man was, outwardly anyway. Less wealthy, less confident, less ambitious. Preferably less old, less tall. It was not fair, obviously, but it was no good pretending otherwise.
So, two options. Who would prefer to be a divorcee or an old maid, living alone on a tiny budget in a spotless man-less apartment? No, sir, not Milly MacAlister! But she couldn’t help wishing he would wait for her, and more. She wished with all her heart she was independent. Truly independent, like Jack was. With a career, with respect. With working legs. Her bottom was getting so numb, she shifted a bit and wrapped her arms around herself. Where was that man now? Darn him. What if the tide came in and she was stranded on this rock? Then suddenly he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her too, so her arms were pinned by his arms, which felt young and strong. Thought evaporated. All those wishes for a tad of her husband’s freedom flew away.
Nothing in this moment told her mind, or his, that they were fifty-nine and fifty-seven years old. His mouth nuzzled her neck, till she swivelled her face and they kissed in a way they’d never kissed before. A kiss that surpassed all those other kisses. Those dozens of first week kisses, those hundreds of early married kisses, those thousands of old married kisses. This was the kiss of two grown-ups who had just met. As if recent events had scraped away their personal history.
Two months later, two big things happened on the same day.
‘This is Tom. Tom, this is my dad and mom. Jack and Milly. Actually, you’ve met already, ages ago. At that Fourth of July barbecue, remember?’
Silence. Tom was five foot two to Elisabeth’s five foot seven. He was wearing a track suit.
‘Close your mouth, Dad. He’s cool about this.’ She patted her enormous bump.
‘I’m not into genetic vanities,’ explained Tom in a low voice. ‘I don’t look for immortality that way.’
And then the phone call interrupting the celebratory toast.
After Jack’s mother’s funeral, the family, which now had thirty-six-year-old Tom grafted on to it, ate lunch at Arrivederci. It was a rowdy lunch, and no one observing them would think it was post-funeral. Lots of red wine, loud chatter and laughter. Toasts galore. And under the table, some knees were touching, and some hands were entwined occasionally. At least four, including Ernie and Bernice. Look at them, thought Jack – still at it obviously. And Sam had brought his new girlfriend. A loud girl in a red turtleneck, obviously synthetic. As a rule, MacAlisters never wore turtlenecks or anything synthetic, but Jack was polite to her anyway. Danny and Donald seemed to be flirting with her, but then they always wanted what Sam had. Colette had brought fourteen-year-old August then discreetly left, promising to return later to pick him up. August, oddly, had loved his grandmother, and his eyes were still red. This puzzled Jack. Had he got his mother wrong? Had she been lovable? The other children didn’t seem bothered much by her absence, not even Elisabeth really. Grandma MacAlister had been a crusty cold figure in their lives, not unlike Grandma Molinelli. He’d not had any time to think about her since she died. All the arrangements had fallen to him. Hardly even time to get his suit cleaned. Ivy had sent a card.
Wanted to come to the funeral, Jacko, but think it’s been too long now. Think going home might finish me off. I am so sorry you got to do this thing all on your own.
When Jack returned to the table after paying, there was only his wife left. Billy must have gone off with one of his siblings. Or maybe his girlfriend’s mother had picked him up. Maria and Billy rarely spent a whole day apart. Jack didn’t care. Billy was seventeen and annoying.
‘Well,’ Milly said.
He couldn’t decipher her expression. He was a little drunk and worried about driving. Something else to stop the mom thoughts. Was his wife about to cry? To throw up?
‘Let’s go, Milly. Let me help you.’
‘No, thank you. I can get up myself. You go to the car, I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘I’ll walk with you, honey.’
Pause. He stood and stared at her. She sat and stared back, then said:
‘I said I am fine. I’ll meet you at the car.’
‘Christ,’ he said under his breath. He got the car and pulled it up to the front door. For two cents, he’d drive off right now and leave her. Stubborn woman! He spotted her wobbling a little at the entrance, and a young man rose from his table and opened the door for her. The man glared at Jack. Jack had the window down and he could clearly hear his wife’s tinkling laughter and her flirty voice: ‘Why, aren’t you kind! I was hoping someone would open the door.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he said to himself. ‘Get in the car,’ he told her through the open window.
‘Did you see that nice man over there?’
‘Get in the car, Milly.’
And off they drove, into the afternoon of his mother’s funeral day. Everything was increasingly surreal. He thought of the cinnamon banana cake his mother often baked. Always underdone, so it was dark and easier to eat with a spoon in a bowl. And that box of Christmas ornaments she’d kept in her cupboard under the stairs. Couldn’t recall, for the moment, if she’d even had a tree the last few years. There was a reindeer ornament he’d always liked, even as a teen. It had gems on each antler point.
‘Isn’t it wonderful about the wedding?’
‘What wedding?’
‘Weren’t you listening?’
Nothing in this day irritated him more than her knowing some family news that he did not.
‘Of course I was listening,’ he bluffed. ‘You mean the fact they’re tying the knot seconds before the baby pops out? Hardly call that a wedding to be excited about. Not in the ordinary sense, more like a marriage of convenience.’
‘He is a nice boy, Jack.’
‘Sure, sure. He’s very nice.’
‘You say nice like it’s a bad thing. He told her she was the only woman he’d ever really loved.’
‘And she believed him?’
‘Oh! To hell with you, Jack MacAlister. I suppose you think you know everything about marriage.’
‘Well, I’d say it probably has a better chance when there’s no baby on the way.’
‘They know that! Of course they do.’
‘I bet they’d never get married at all, if she wasn’t pregnant.’
‘And that would be good? You don’t think strong marriages can come from weak beginnings?’
Oh, Milly was exasperating. That day at Bolinas, the day of that kiss – it might have never happened. Nothing had changed.
Once home, he took a walk to clear his head of wine, then did a bit of editing on Fiordinski’s new manuscript. Made a note about an invoice for his secretary to type up. Made notes for a speech he had to give on Saturday, for the Dulcinea Short Story Prize, and better get it right this year after the last fiasco. He’d stood there in a room of 500 people, praising the winning author’s ability to convey profound loss without sentimentality, while the author had stood by him frowning, tilting her head, puzzled. How was he to know her story had been a comedy about getting on the wrong train? Was he expected to have read the damn thing? Was it so unrealistic to think the conveying-profound-loss-without-sentimentality was a phrase that could apply to ninety-nine per cent of literary fiction? But this time he was prepared. Even read the stupid story.
